Lines in the Sand
by Jessahme Wren
Summary: Following the death of her father, Liz is in a dark place. Red meets her there. In their own way, they begin to heal each other. AU post-1x07/1x08.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm not quite finished with this one, but it's getting quite long and I'm tired of being the only one reading it. I need some perspective. Please let me know what you think. I really do value your feedback! **

**While not a song fic, most of this is inspired by "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men.**

**Posted also at AO3.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine; I own nothing.**

-0-0-0-

Liz sat at the dining room table in her favorite robe listening to the rain outside. It beat down in a steady roar, periodically underscored by the low rumble of thunder. Rain soaked the windows, casting a blue pall on the living room and blurring the world outside. Though the house was drafty, the obstructed view to the outside world made her feel slightly claustrophobic.

She pulled the covering around her, but the silk seemed to hold the cold and not displace it. She shivered.

It had been three weeks. Three weeks since Sam died.

She looked at the envelopes strewn over the surface of the oak table. Some she had opened, some were already so. Moth-winged papers stretched and contracted, warming under the sun of the dining room lamp. She grazed a thumb over her dad's name and address, blinking back tears.

She looked up as the door rattled and the lock snicked free. Tom came dripping through the door with a box of composition books. His glasses were fogged.

Liz hadn't noticed the time, and she couldn't remember how long she'd been sitting there. Though it must've been four or just after, she looked at the clock in the kitchen for validation.

Tom dropped the box heavily and crossed over to sit next to her without shedding his coat. She frowned as the little droplets of rainwater soaked into the new rug.

"Hey," he said cheerily. "You making any headway?"

He indicated the spread of bills on the table in front of her. She shook her head. "I didn't know there would be all this after someone...after they're gone."

Tom gave a sympathetic frown and rested his chin on his wife's head. He rubbed her upper arm, pulling her closer to him. "You know it's really hot in here, right? You don't have a fever do you." His hands moved to check her forehead; they were cold, and she twisted away from him.

"I don't have a fever," she said blandly. She turned her attention back to the bills, shuffling them, something to keep her hands busy. They were all overdue, so she started sorting them by date received, something she should've done hours ago.

Tom stood and finally hung his raincoat by the door. He reached down to acknowledge Hudson and then went into the kitchen and began running water. "I'll make us some coffee," he said.

Liz nodded absently. "How was your day?" It was their usual dance, and she knew the steps by heart.

"Crazy, but good. State assessments are next week, so we're hitting that hard. I've got to present at that conference over the weekend. Oh, and a kid puked in my room today. Nothing too out of the ordinary."

She nodded again, but she was acknowledging the sound of his voice and not really the words. She could hear the coffee brewing in the background, and Tom, and the clock, and the thunder, and her heartbeat, and rustling papers, but she heard them outside of herself. She rested her chin in her hands and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the meaningless noise.

When she opened them, a bit of color amid the pile caught her eye. She pulled at the corner of it and coaxed it from under the bills and into the dim light. A small piece of paper from a yellow legal pad handwritten in loose red script.

_You don't have to be alone. _

She ran her finger over the words, her fingers trembling only slightly. Unlike her father's name and address, she could feel the tattoo of pen against paper, the discernible scar. It felt real, represented what was real, unlike the laser printed facsimile of her father's life. She imagined him holding the pen, pressing into the paper with enough force to leave a whisper of his writing on the next blank page. A memory.

He'd been in her house today. Had he come in the rain? She imagined him stopping at the door to take off his coat (Raymond Reddington was not messy). _He stood over this table_, she thought, _touched these letters; he might have even sat in this chair_. Hudson would have greeted him happily; Red had been in her house so many times Hudson no longer regarded him as an intruder.

Yet he was an intruder. She hugged herself a little at the thought. The imposed intimacy was a part of their relationship, something she had come to accept along with his presence in her life. That is, until a about a month ago.

_You don't have to be alone._

He had been leaving her little things like this for the past two weeks. Little reassurances, messages of his willingness to be there. A dry cleaning receipt. A napkin at her favorite coffee shop. She had not answered them, and he did not call.

"Tell me some stories," he had said, and she had. But only at work and only within the confines of their relationship with the FBI. He had no business in her personal life, as she had told him. So far, save for these little communications, he had respected that. No more late night phone calls, no more unscheduled meetings. They were partners and that was all.

But then, Sam had died. Liz had worked the first week after, but at Cooper's urging, she'd taken a leave of absence two weeks ago. It was the last time she saw him.

She heard Tom's soft footfalls behind her and quickly hid the slip of paper in the sleeve of her robe. He placed a mug in front of her, and she let the steam from the rim envelop her face, a momentary comfort. Tom settled beside her.

"Need me to help?" His hand covered hers, lacing the fingers that had just held the note.

She smiled sadly. "I don't think you can," she said quietly. Her brow furrowed; she still couldn't see out of the windows, and the room was all blue shadows and still so very cold, despite what the thermostat read.

"I think it's something I need to do on my own." She looked down. "Some of it's very personal."

Tom smiled tightly and squeezed her hand. "I'm here if you need me," he said. He left her at the table with the letters and the hidden note feeling more alone than when the house was empty.

-0-0-0-


	2. Chapter 2

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Red sat near the window of his penthouse suite, a half-eaten sumptuous meal and another bottle of wine in front of him. He held a glass in his hand and gazed out the window into the night. On the streets below the headlights from commuters crawling through the rain-soaked night danced in and out of lanes like so many fireflies, oblivious to conditions or apparent danger or simply disregarding both.

He finished the contents of the glass in several long gulps, unconcerned with the bouquet or finish or with taking his time. He did the wine a disservice, he knew, but one that served a purpose. Tonight, he was more concerned with the balm that wine might bring.

He wanted to forget, but there weren't enough grapes in the south of France to grant him that. He poured another glass and drank half of it before he sat it on the table.

Loving Elizabeth Keen was a burden even he struggled under at times.

He grabbed the bottle and walked to a chair in the great room where he sat down a little too heavily. He stripped off his tie and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. He exhaled slowly. The cool air on his skin felt good.

He intended to get drunk. He probably wouldn't. He couldn't remember the last time he had, or how much it would even take to get him there. Raymond Reddington had such practiced control that it was hard to give it up even willingly.

Except when it came to Lizzie.

He poured another glass.

She was hurting, he knew. He also knew that he was the cause of that pain.

The room was dark and cool, and the generous wine he'd consumed finally started to whittle away at the ache inside him. If only he had let nature take its course, he thought, if only he had let Sam live out the rest of his weeks or months, she might have had one more day with him. Maybe if she had seen him just once more...

But that hadn't been possible.

Sam would have told her. He would have told her everything far before she was ready to hear it, and that simply would not do. He sipped at the wine he had just poured.

Lizzie would know her history, Red thought to himself, he would never deny her that, but she would know it from him when the time was right. It was not yet that time.

Red had found from experience that things that happen outside of their time are ill-conceived, destructive. He would not jeopardize the fragile trust that, like a tiny ember, he was trying so desperately to coax into full life.

"_You will always be her father, Sam."_

Red had reassured his old friend that his role as guide and confidant for Lizzie would never replace the relationship they shared. For the road ahead, Liz would need someone to help fill in the gaps in her history, her life. With Sam gone, Red would be that person.

Indeed, he would be much more if she would have him.

He toed off his shoes and crossed his ankles in front of him. The night was still new, and the line of traffic below had not really lessened, only eased. The lights seemed less frantic, more fluid, as if each of those lights had readily accepted its role, knew its place in the grander scheme.

Red knew his role; he had readily accepted it. _Protect Elizabeth Keen_. His task, his mission so long ago. Falling in love with her had been quite unexpected.

There in the dark he allowed himself a small smile. Sometimes the plan changed.

If the wrong people found out about how he felt...

He worked his mouth. Red wasn't drunk enough yet to consider the ramifications of that for either of them.

He tried to remember when exactly it had happened. He could not. He was only vaguely aware of a sense of duty early on, of misguided trust. When that duty had failed him, there in its place was a sincere caring, a desire for her well-being. Where it had come from Red knew not, only that he had found himself no longer protecting Elizabeth Keen for his Adversary, but for himself.

And for Sam. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his close-cut hair. He had not yet mourned his friend. He did not know when that would happen or if he even could. Instead of sadness, he felt something akin to disappointment. He was disappointed that he had not had more time with him through the years; he was disappointed that Lizzie had not had the same.

Red had never given much thought to dying. He saw death as a part of life, something he had touched and been touched by in numerous ways through the years. He had been there when life took its leave of friends and foes alike; indeed, at times he had taken Death's hand and invited him in.

But when Red had arrived in Sam's hospital room, Death was already there.

Red's mouth twitched imperceptibly and he finished the glass of wine that hung loosely from his left hand. He cleared his throat.

"Dembe."

He knew his friend was never far, and the wide open space of the suite carried the sound well. A few moments later Dembe appeared from another room; Red could hear him lean against the doorframe. He looked at the back of Red's chair, but never saw his face.

"What news of Lizzie?"

"She's at home; she hasn't been out for several hours." Dembe paused, considering the next words. "She probably won't go out again."

Red nodded. It didn't concern him as to how Dembe had drawn this conclusion, only that it was drawn. It worried him how reclusive Lizzie had been since her father's death-not just with him, but with everyone.

"Thank you Dembe."

He could hear the man's quiet movements through the large space, and he listened until those sounds had retreated to nothing and he was truly alone again.

He thought of their conversation, the one that changed everything. Lizzie had just killed Frederick Barnes and he knew it had affected her. His Lizzie was not a killer. Her role as a profiler, her desire to understand humanity better only reinforced her respect for human life.

Yet just as she chose not to recognize the moral complexities of Frederick Barnes, Lizzie didn't understand Red and didn't seem to want to.

He considered that. Everything with Lizzie was so often either black or white. If it was a truth that was unfamiliar or made her uncomfortable, she often discounted it. Heroes and villains, the concepts of good and evil were often compartmentalized, categorized, tagged and labeled. It was how she protected herself, he knew. How she made sense of the world.

But Raymond Reddington defied qualification. He did not bow to her science, and it made her uncomfortable.

She had acknowledged that she needed him that night, but only to play the FBI's little games. There was no room for him in her life. He had a function in her eyes, finite and specific; of her own admission she was not interested in knowing him further.

_Perhaps if she looked too closely_, he thought absently, _she might see too much of herself._

He poured the remainder of the bottle into the wine glass and scooched down further in his chair. He let the empty bottle fall onto the carpet with a soft thwump and closed his eyes.

_That was before Sam_, he thought. _Now everything has changed_.

-0-0-0-


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Forgive me for this necessary transitional chapter. I'll try to update quickly with Chapter 4. I want to take a moment to thank everyone for the follows/favorites/comments; I appreciate every one. If you have a moment, do let me know what you think. :)

-0-0-0-

2:34 am.

The red numbers on the digital clock shown from the nightstand with glaring persistence, seeming to sear her retina. She'd watched every hour on that clock since the night before, and for all her exhaustion she felt wired, restless. The room felt close, Tom's arm across her middle like a dead weight. He began snoring lightly, giving her the final reason to extricate herself from the bed completely. She wiggled free and stood at her dresser in the dark fishing for her sneakers and an old pair of jeans.

As quietly as she could, she slipped on her fleece pullover, tiptoed down the stairs, grabbed her keys from the kitchen table and was out the door.

-0-0-0-

Raymond Reddington rarely slept. True, he indulged in the ceremony of sleep. He went to bed and remained there for several hours, but he did not really sleep.

There were a number of valid reasons for his insomnia. Traveling so much toyed with his Circadian rhythm. Not staying somewhere long enough to settle in, no matter the amenities afforded him, was not conducive to a restful sleep. Either of these excuses and many others might have sufficed as an explanation had Red not known otherwise.

There was simply too much on his mind.

Sleep required the conscious mind to rest, and his mind was never at rest. Always calculating, always strategizing, always warring with demons from his past. Sleep required trust-trust in one's environment, the ability to let your guard down. To relinquish control. He had never been able to do that. He'd been in too many safe houses and work camp prisons and in the arms of too many dangerous women to afford the luxury of sleep.

So he rested rather than slept, closing his eyes and relaxing his body but still maintaining wakefulness. He had learned this from a holy man in India. He could will himself stillness, relaxation, but the sweet oblivion of sleep was never his prize.

He was indulging in one of these restful periods when his phone rang. It was Dembe.

"Mr. Reddington, Agent Keen is in her car."

Red frowned at his watch. It was 2:54 am. "Tail her," he said roughly. His voice was low and ragged from the late hour. "Call me when she stops driving." He ended the call.

Dembe nodded to the dead line. He sat in a black sedan at a red light a few car lengths behind Liz. When the light turned, he followed casually. When she veered onto a side road, so did he.

Red was on the side of the bed by now, fully awake. He turned on a single lamp and walked into his closet to get dressed.

This behavior from Liz concerned him. He knew she hadn't been sleeping, but she had never left the house in the middle of the night. Not once.

He stood among his pristine wardrobe. He chose a pair of charcoal gray slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, lay them out on the bed, and then started the shower.

-0-0-0-

Liz sat in a parked car in front of Bed Bath and Beyond and couldn't remember how she'd gotten there. She looked at her hands locked firmly around the steering wheel. The music was loud and the heat was on full blast. It wasn't until she saw a tear fall into her lap that she realized she was crying.

Unbeknownst to Liz a man observed her. He noted her tense body language, the tears glinting in the stark white light of the street lamp. His face was impassive as he studied her through a pair of binoculars. After a few moments, he set them aside and picked up a cell phone.

The number he dialed rang three times, a fourth. Red strode from the shower in a puff of steam, a towel tied languidly around his waist. He found the phone on the bed and answered without preamble.

"Where is she?"

"At a mall sir, about twenty miles away."

Red frowned, passing a quick hand over his still-damp forehead. "What is she doing?"

"It is not yet evident," the cadenced voice replied. "She has not left the car." The voice paused, hesitating. "I believe she is crying."

Red inhaled sharply, and his frown only deepened. When Red spoke, Dembe could hear the noticeable change in his tone. "Bring her here," he said simply. "She shouldn't be there alone at this hour."

Red ended the call. He did not try to contact her himself; it was likely she wouldn't answer. He tossed the phone onto the bed and turned on another lamp. He had planned on letting her make the first move toward seeing him again, but as was so often the case, circumstances change.

-0-0-0-

Dembe considered how he should approach the woman. He knew she was more than likely armed; she was a trained agent, it was late and she was alone in an unfamiliar part of town. She would be defensive. Raymond rarely gave him explicit instruction on how to handle most situations; he only trusted him to take care of it. This was undoubtedly one of those times.

Finally, he decided that simplest was probably best. He picked up the phone and dialed her number.

Liz felt the phone vibrating in her pocket. She withdrew it, squinting at the unfamiliar number.

"Hello?"

The soft accented voice on the other line answered. "Agent Keen."

She blinked, knowing immediately from the intonation who it was but not believing it.

"Why are you calling me?"

"Mr. Reddington would like to see you." He listened to the steady thump of her music as he waited for a reply.

"Agent Keen?"

She turned down the volume on her stereo and noticed for the first time that the car was still idling. She shook her head.

"No."

Dembe watched her from his own car. He noticed she had sat up straighter at the mention of Red's name.

"He's concerned for your well-being," he said truthfully.

She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. "Isn't he always?"

Dembe continued, unfazed. "Agent Keen-"

"Elizabeth," she corrected.

"Elizabeth," Dembe started again. Her name sounded less pedestrian when he said it, and she decided that she liked it.

"Mr. Reddington has been...preoccupied with concern for you ever since your father died." Dembe considered those words and realized them to be truth. "He's not been himself."

Liz grew quiet on the other end. She didn't respond right away; instead, she searched her line of sight for the car she knew couldn't be very far away, for the voice on the other end of the phone.

"I'm sorry for that," she said finally.

Dembe took a breath. "So am I," he said warmly. "And I am sorry about the death of your father."

Fresh tears stung her eyes. So many people had said the same thing to her recently, but more than half of them had not meant it as he did.

"Will you come with me," he asked quietly.

A few moments passed. In the weighty silence Dembe could almost sense her conflict.

In lieu of a response, he saw the car's headlights die. She turned off the ignition and the car grew quiet.

-0-0-0-


	4. Chapter 4

Summary: Red and Liz meet. Thanks so much for the comments/follows/favorites. Knowing people are enjoying this story makes it all the more enjoyable to write. As I always, I would love to know what you think.

-0-0-0-

Red stood close enough to the door to hear the elevator ding. He'd added a matching vest to his earlier ensemble, but it hung open against his white dress shirt. He wore no tie.

The little flip in his stomach was the vestiges of last night's wine, he told himself, and nothing more. He settled on the couch, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. A few moments later there was a knock at the door of his suite.

Dembe announced them and Red bid them come in. Red sat on the couch, trying to look casual. Dembe suppressed a smile at his friend; very few people could nudge Raymond Reddington off-center like Elizabeth Keen.

Red stood as she approached. She looked tired and was a bit pale. Her eyes were red-rimmed, no doubt from recent and plentiful tears, and they shone with a dull sadness that made the ache within him sing. He thought briefly that he should have called her, should have seen her before now, despite what she had said.

"Lizzie."

There was a good distance between them. She stood, arms crossed and body rigid, looking at him. "Hello Red."

He indicated the couch. "Sit, please."

Stiffly, she complied. She surveyed his surroundings, his latest home yet not a home. "This one's nice," she said blandly. "Spacious."

Red smiled a mirthless smile. "They're all nice," he said. "There's something to be said for consistency."

Her eyes grew dark, and she looked at him. "Like how you consistently spy on me?"

His mouth twitched. His eyes were apologetic, but he said nothing.

She placed her hands in her lap and leaned back into the couch. Her shoulders were slightly hunched. "Where are your babysitters," she inquired wryly. She'd seen no sign of the FBI in the hallway and there appeared to be no agents inside the suite.

"Since we're not on a case right now they've loosened my lead a bit," he said. "And since I still have my shock collar (he indicated the smooth, tan flesh of his neck) I'm not likely to stray too far from the yard." He smiled, but the light never reached his eyes.

She looked away from him. He could fully examine her in profile then, and he did so. She hadn't slept; he recognized the familiar weariness in her that he usually masked with perfect suits and designer sunglasses. Her casual clothing made her appear younger if not a little wayward. He saw her eyes fall on the chess game near the window and it piqued his interest. He followed her line of sight.

"Do you play?"

"I used to," she said quietly. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, her mind elsewhere.

"Do you mind?" He indicated the game, hoping to catch her gaze. He did, yet it was fleeting. The smile on her lips vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"I think I'd like that."

-0-0-0-

Red realized he had a new favorite thing: watching Elizabeth Keen play chess. She hovered over her side of the board, fingers splayed through her hair, leaning on her elbow. Her eyes surveyed everything; he could almost hear her interpretative mind weighing possible moves, calculating risk. Her lips were moist and slightly pouted in concentration. He found himself looking at them more than he should.

She moved an elegant hand over the board and quickly withdrew it.

"Check."

Red smiled broadly, and it took her by surprise. Liz couldn't remember ever seeing him smile like that, where his whole face brightened. She couldn't stop herself from smiling back.

"I'm not often put into check," he said in explanation as he moved to guard his king.

"Well, we don't often play."

That pleased him. There was a light in her eyes that had not been there when she arrived. It reminded him of the day they first met, when she was all molten fire and had so much to prove. If anything, maybe he had helped her forget for just a little while.

She pursed her lips into a petulant frown, studying the board intently. He couldn't take his eyes off her and realized he would most likely lose the game because of it. He wondered if she had any idea of the influence she had over him.

"What's your favorite piece," he asked, as much to distract himself as to garner a serious answer.

She smiled. "You're trying to distract me Red."

His lips parted in feigned offense. "I don't have to resort to petty trickery to win this game, my dear Lizzie," he said silkily. "Skill is enough."

She huffed dismissively and made her move. A few moments passed. "The bishop. The bishop is my favorite piece."

He mulled that quietly but did not address it. He concentrated on the board. She was working him, he knew, but he couldn't figure out how. He found the struggle and the possibility that he might lose exhilarating.

In the middle of his study he saw her eyes drift closed for a moment before she caught herself. Her hand went up to cover a yawn.

"Lizzie," he said quietly. His voice was lower than before, a little more than a rumble in the still room, and it resonated between them. "You're exhausted."

Her eyes slipped closed again as if to punctuate the statement. She shook herself and stood suddenly. "I should be going," she said. She looked at her phone. It was after 4am.

Red stood to meet her, leaving their game in the balance. He studied her face, considering his next few words.

"Rest here for awhile. Then Dembe can take you to your car."

She worried her hands. The vacant look that had had taken its leave while they played had returned, and she looked lost. She cast a furtive glance at him. "Tom will be getting up soon."

A muscle in his jaw flexed when she said his name, but Red's expression remained neutral. "It's Saturday," he said.

Liz studied her fingers. "Oh."

He saw the crushing tiredness descend on her almost at once. She swayed slightly on her feet, and he reached out and caught her arm.

"Ok," she said. It was more of an admission of defeat than an admission of need. He took hold of her elbow and led her back to his bedroom.

When they reached the threshold and she realized it was to his bed he was taking her, Liz tensed. She looked at him questioningly.

"I only have the one bedroom here." His mouth gave a little half-smile, an indiscernible emotion playing at the corners.

Liz swallowed, nodding mutely.

He turned down the covers for her and remembered that she didn't have any clothes. "You can wear one of my shirts," he said quietly. If she hadn't been so sleepy, she might have detected a hint of nervousness beneath the placid demeanor. He withdrew a clean, white, folded t-shirt from one of the dresser drawers and placed it on the end of the bed.

Red looked at her tenderly. "Get some rest Lizzie."

She held his gaze for a moment, but didn't say anything. He turned to leave. She watched his back as he retreated; the door eased shut behind him, shocking her awake.

Liz touched the shirt where it lay folded on the bed. _This must be what resides beneath those perfectly pressed dress shirts, _she thought. It was soft beneath her fingers and gleaming white.

Hesitantly, she held it to her face, inhaling. The shirt was freshly laundered, but she didn't recognize the detergent. It smelled less floral and more earthy, almost green. She'd smelled that smell before, on him, and the familiarity was strangely comforting.

Liz slipped her shirt off over her head, then shimmied out of her jeans. She felt over-exposed in the large room, self-conscious although she was alone. She stood in her bra and panties at the side of his bed. Cool air prickled her skin, and she shivered.

Tentatively, she stretched out her hand to glide along the fine cotton sheets. They were a deep red, almost burgundy, and incredibly soft. She removed her bra and pulled the fresh t-shirt over her head. With only a moment's hesitation, she removed her panties too.

She slipped beneath the sheets, reclining on her side. The bed was firmer than she expected, but it seemed to caress her body perfectly, making her feel weightless. She adjusted the cover under her chin, and with the slight stir came a fresh onslaught of his scent. Every little movement disturbed it; the unique blend of fragrances that made him unmistakable, identifiable by smell alone, permeated the bed, even the room. What she had previously only noticed in the close proximity of working with him now enveloped her like a warm embrace.

Liz inhaled deeply, moving once more beneath the cool sheets. Her breathing became even as she quickly slipped into a peaceful and dreamless sleep.

-0-0-0-

Red poured a drink at the bar and tried not to think about Lizzie. Lizzie, who was asleep in his bed just a few yards away.

She'd been asleep nearly an hour. He had opened the door just enough to listen for her slow, even breaths. He smiled at the memory. A slender foot had shone in the dark, and he had longed to tuck it back beneath the blankets, preserving its warmth.

With a turn of the lock Dembe let himself in, and Red turned to look at him.

"Is it done?"

Dembe nodded. "Yes, Luli has done as you asked."

Red seemed satisfied. "You will need to take her back to her car in a few hours." Just the thought of her leaving seemed to cast a shadow over his previous contentment.

"Of course," said Dembe.

Red indicated that he join him, and the two friends sat facing each other as Red nursed his drink. "So how did you convince her to come here," Red asked casually.

"I gave her a reason."

Red tilted his head ever so slightly. "What reason would that be."

Dembe gave a small smile. "Concern for you."

Red's eyes widened only briefly, a reaction the casual observer would have missed. Dembe was no casual observer. He continued.

"I hope I am not being too forward, Raymond, but I believe she cares for you in some ways as much as you care for her."

Red took a swig of his drink as much to hide his facial expressions as to steady his nerves.

"I told her you had not been yourself, that I was worried about you," Dembe said.

Red swirled the amber-colored contents of his glass and looked at his friend. "Is that true?"

Dembe nodded, understanding the double meaning of his statement. "Yes. Both of those things are very true."

Red registered the concern on the man's face, considering its validity. He quirked his mouth. After a few moments he nodded curtly, his expression unreadable.

"Thank you Dembe." It was Red's gentlemanly way of dismissing him, of telling him he'd rather be alone. Dembe nodded and bid him goodnight.

Red sat on the couch in the early morning hours, thinking.

-0-0-0-


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks so much for the follows, favorites, and mostly your comments on this story. I love reading your thoughts, especially when they help me see things I didn't see before. Also, I'll only post a chapter after I've written another one, so please take a moment to send my muse vibes. :)

-0-0-0-

Liz stretched luxuriously in the large bed and blinked at the sun breaking through the curtains. For a few blissful moments, she was unaware of where she was or the circumstances of her being there. She was simply well rested and at the moment very comfortable.

_With Red_.

Realization dawned as the events of the last few hours came rushing back. With a flutter of dread, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and checked her phone. There was a missed call from Tom. It was 9 a.m. and he was probably wondering where she was. She dressed hurriedly.

Liz flung open the door to Red's bedroom and spilled out into the short hall that led to the great room. She was calling his name, nearly frantic and half staggering as she struggled to pull on her other shoe.

"Red, I have to go! Right now, Red! You've got to-"

As she reached the great room of the suite, she paused mid-sentence. The first thing she saw was Red. He was surrounded by five men, all in suits, sitting around a large brunch spread before them. All eyes, including his, were now on the slightly crazed-looking woman with bed head and faded jeans who had just shambled out of Red's bedroom.

"Sweetheart!" Red stood to meet her, his arms spread, an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. He wrapped an arm loosely around her waist and was delighted to find that she still wore his t-shirt.

He leaned in close. "Play along and they'll be gone in a moment," he whispered into her ear. His hot breath on her neck caused a shiver of warmth up her spine, and when she felt herself tighten against his t-shirt she discovered that in her haste she had forgotten her bra. She crossed her arms over her breasts protectively as a deep blush spread across her cheeks.

Despite her defensive posture he held her closely, fingers threaded through the belt loops of her jeans in a way that hitched her hips forward. A thumb found her side and began sweeping back and forth across her skin, just over the waistband. It was almost hypnotic. A fresh blush heated her face as his eyes flicked down to her mouth. "I was wondering when you might be up."

He turned his attention to the men, now openly gawking at the two over their untouched glasses of orange juice. "My princess does love her beauty sleep."

Red smoothed her wild locks until his hands framed her face. "I'll get you to that meeting very soon," he purred. "Why don't you freshen up while I finish with these gentlemen, hmm?" He studied her face, wanting very much to kiss her, but genuinely and not under false pretenses. Instead, he turned and led her back to the bedroom, his hand at her back just a little lower than usual. He gave her a knowing glance as he shut the door and she scowled at him.

An hour later she heard raucous laughter and the shuffling of feet. Several minutes after the door to the suite closed behind them, Red made his way back to the bedroom. He found her sitting on the bed, legs crossed, fidgeting.

"You can come out now," he told her.

She breezed passed him and into the great room. She stood amid the spent breakfast dishes looking a little more put together but somewhat unsure of herself. She still wore his shirt.

"I'm sorry about that," he said genuinely, referring to the assemblage she'd so hilariously intruded upon.

Liz shrugged. She knew it was business. She had learned that it was best not to ask.

He looked at her. "Dembe's ready to take you to your car."

She nodded. He turned away from her to the food that was still laid out and began assembling a plate. "Of course you don't have to go just yet, if you don't want to. It's been seen to."

He turned around and offered her the plate of fruit and pastry. She didn't take it.

"What do you mean?"

He set the plate down on the table. "Luli left a note for Tom on your refrigerator. Apparently you're at the store." He smirked.

She studied her feet, considering the implications of Red knowing where she and Tom usually left each other messages. "I still have to go," she said.

Red took a step closer to her. "Are you afraid of your husband Lizzie?"

She looked up, glaring at him. "No. But if I were, that would have everything to do with you. You've done nothing but try to turn me against him."

Red looked at her nonchalantly. "You've done most of that yourself," he said calmly.

She didn't answer. He smiled. "Why don't you just call him if you're so concerned." He registered her surprise. "Or haven't you thought of that?"

The look on her face told him she hadn't, a realization that pleased him.

Red picked up his phone, pinning her with a knowing glance. "Dembe, Agent Keen is ready to be taken to her car now."

-0-0-0-

Liz pulled up to the house a little before 11 a.m. It was dark inside. She fiddled with the lock until the door opened seemingly of its own volition. She looked up to see Tom on the other side of it.

"Hey you." He pulled her awkwardly to him. "I got your note. Do you need help unloading the car?"

She sidled past him to the fridge. "No, I just picked up some milk." She placed the carton on the top shelf and let the door shut softly. Her eyes fell on a small suitcase on the floor. She cocked an eyebrow.

"Are you going somewhere?"

He crossed and pulled her into a loose embrace. "The conference. I have to present this weekend. I'll be back tomorrow night." He pulled away to look at her. "We talked about it, remember?"

She didn't, but she nodded anyway. "I wish we had more time before I have to leave." He kissed her softly. "If I had known you needed to go to the store we could've gone shopping together."

Tom suddenly frowned at his hands at her waist, noticing the unfamiliar shirt. "Did you wear this to bed?"

_Shit shit shit. _"No," she said quickly. "I spilled something while I was out. Coffee. I was in a pinch so I bought a pack of t-shirts." She smiled sweetly. "I figured you could use the others."

He smiled and kissed her forehead. "That was good thinking."

She nodded primly. _Yep. _Outside, a car horn sounded.

He squeezed her hand. "That's my ride," he said. He acknowledged Hudson before hefting his suitcase through the door and was gone.

"Be careful," she said as the door slipped closed. Liz stared at it for several moments. Tom was gone. Now she was alone.

She showered, taking her time, half hoping the hot water would burn away the sadness she felt slowly creeping back. It was always this way when she was alone with her thoughts, especially lately. She dressed in a sweater and jeans, something functional in case she felt like another drive later. As bizarre as last night seemed, it had felt good to get out, to get away.

She walked through the kitchen, stopping to acknowledge Luli's note that she had purposely ignored earlier. Liz marveled at it; it even looked like her handwriting. The free reign Red seemed to assume over her personal space should have infuriated her. It didn't. For reasons she wasn't quite sure of, it made her feel safe. She crushed the little message in her palm and tossed it into the trash.

She was still toweling off her hair as she made her way into the living room. That's when she saw it.

A chess board sat squarely in the middle of her coffee table. Her heart skipped. It couldn't have been there more than an hour. She approached it carefully. A little sticky note in red print was tacked to the side of the black king.

"_Check_."

She smiled and peeled off the note. _He must've finished his move after I went to bed_, she thought. She turned the note over to find a telephone number; he had a new one about every two weeks. She dialed, and it rang twice before he answered.

"You know you might ask to come in sometimes instead of constantly breaking into my house," she said.

She could hear his low chuckle over the phone. "May I come in?

Her stomach gave a little flip as she made her way across the carpet. She discarded the towel and did her best to smooth her damp hair. Whether she admitted it to herself or not, she always tried to look put together around him.

She looked through the peep hole of the door to find him standing there against a dreary backdrop of rain-slicked asphalt and dingy neighborhood houses. The fisheye focus made the image of him at her door seem all the more surreal. She fumbled with the locks, her hands shaking.

The door opened and he stood there holding a small bag and a bottle of wine. He had on one of his lighter suits without the tie and wore a crisp matching fedora. The first few buttons of his pinstripe shirt were undone, striking her just at eye level. Wordlessly, she stepped aside and allowed him entrance. He stopped at the door to remove his coat and hat, almost exactly as she had imagined him doing yesterday when he'd come in the rain.

"Since you refused my breakfast, I thought I would try again with lunch." He held up a few containers and placed them strategically on the dining room table. "I hope you like Italian."

She wet her lips enough to speak and wondered what the neighbors might think of an attractive, well-dressed man arriving at her door with a bottle of wine just an hour after her husband left.

"Where is dear old Tom," he asked, seemingly reading her mind. "There's enough here for him too. He and I can share pasta _Lady and the Tramp_ style."

She rolled her eyes at his sarcasm. "Cut the crap Red, you know Tom's not here. That's why you're here."

He nodded knowingly. "So, what will you be having? The Portobello ravioli or the ziti? I do believe there's some Alfredo in here somewhere..." He busied himself with the containers, then opened the cabinet and produced two plates. He knew exactly where they were.

"You shouldn't be here Red."

He stopped what he was doing and turned to look at her imperiously. "And why not."

"It's not professional."

"And we're not working," he countered.

She closed her eyes. "I've been trying to keep a distance..."

"Yes, I know that," he said crisply. "And I respect that, Lizzie." He closed the gap a little, looking like he wanted to touch her. When he spoke, his voice was a tad lower. "But I don't think you should be alone right now. Do you?"

He didn't have to touch her. His smooth voice flowed over her, familiar and comforting. She realized she had missed it. And that he was right.

"Tell me to go, Lizzie, and I'll go." He looked at her openly, his eyes expectant.

She swallowed, meeting his eyes. "The forks are in the left drawer," she said quietly, but she was sure he knew that too.

-0-0-0-


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Back at work/school and busy, but here's Chapter 6. I'm breaking my own rule by posting this before the latest chapter is completed, but it's also my birthday, so I guess a little rule-breaking is in order :). Thanks so much for following and commenting on this story!

-0-0-0-

They sat on the couch and chair respectively, facing each other over chess. They had a wine glass a piece, and the spent dishes from their meal together still sat on the dining room table, forgotten.

"So why is the bishop your favorite piece," Red inquired. There was so little he didn't know about her that he found himself addicted to discovering more.

Red watched as she pursed her lips thoughtfully. The wine had given her a little blush, and she looked absolutely beautiful.

"I like the bishops because they cover each other's weaknesses. They compensate for shortcomings." She pressed her lips together and looked at him. "That's what life should be like with someone. They should make you better where you fall short."

It made him sad. Red was aware of her sometimes low opinion of herself, but her phrasing alluded to Tom. To think that her husband had made her feel like anything less than the most important thing in the world made Red want to grant him the slow and agonizing death he so richly deserved.

He reached forward and made a move. "And what weaknesses do you hope to compensate for," he asked gently.

She chuckled, suddenly embarrassed by her own candor. She didn't answer him.

"What about you," she asked, changing the subject. "What's your favorite piece?"

"The king," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course, it would have to be the most important piece on the board."

"And the weakest," he countered. "I like the slow deliberation. The king can only move one square at a time. There is no rush. You miss out on a lot of life by rushing."

She listened, transfixed. The sensual way in which he spoke often made him completely convincing. She felt flushed.

"Check," she said.

Red laughed lightly. "I'm almost ready for you to win. You've toyed with your prey long enough."

He moved out of danger, or so he thought. Her next move had him.

"Checkmate."

He leaned back against the chair, enjoying her look of triumph. She really was quite good; she had an instinct that was more powerful than strategy. Seeing the smile on her face was better than any paltry victory.

The smile faded and she folded her legs under her. "We could play other ways," she said lightly. "On the internet..." He knew she was thinking about when Tom returned. She'd enjoyed something for the first time in weeks, and she didn't want it to end.

Red frowned, crossing to the table for more wine. He refilled both their glasses. "Then that would deny me the pleasure of watching you play," he said honestly. "I think not."

Her face reddened slightly, and she grew very quiet. Red moved the chess board to the table and sat down on the couch next to her

She watched the light changing through the curtains and sipped her wine. "Sam encouraged me to play chess."

It was the first time she'd mentioned him, yet he knew he was on her mind. He nodded, encouraging her.

"He valued the strategy in the game, the method. So I started playing when I was younger, just as a hobby mostly."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Mostly?"

"I was in a few competitions," she said quietly.

"Please tell me you were on the chess team in high school, Lizzie." Somehow the thought of his Lizzie as a chess geek was very appealing.

"No," she said a little self-consciously, "but I could have been." She smiled shyly. "I was concerned for my image."

Red laughed heartily, eliciting a small chuckle from her as well. "Naturally," he said.

She grew quiet and sank further into the couch. "I miss him Red."

He found her hand on the couch and held it firmly. "I know," he said.

He wished he could tell her more about her father. How Sam had saved his life on more than one occasion. How he was one of the gentlest but also one of the most lethal men he'd ever known. Like his daughter, Sam was a person of contradictions; they only added to his strengths.

"Tell me something else," he prodded gently. It was good for her to talk; the more she reminisced, the more vibrant her father's memory remained.

She sighed. "One summer when I was seven, I wanted to play softball. I wanted to play so badly! But there were no leagues for girls in our town, and the little league baseball teams wouldn't let girls try out."

She smiled at the memory. "So my dad started his own softball team, just so I could play. He knew nothing of sports, but he wanted me to be happy." Her voice became thin, wistful. "He would do anything for me to be happy."

Red watched her withdraw, retreat inside herself. He moved his arm around her and drew her close to him. She let him. She relaxed finally and closed her eyes. A single tear escaped her lashes.

"What was your name," he inquired softly.

She looked up at Red. "Pardon?"

"The team's name. They all have names, don't they?"

Liz nodded. "The Ponies. We were called the Ponies."

She felt, rather than saw him smile. "And you picked the name I bet." She said nothing. "That's really adorable Lizzie."

She nudged him playfully with her shoulder, trying hard to suppress a smile. "Shut up Red."

They sat in companionable silence. Red stroked her arm absently and she didn't seem to mind. "Tell me another story," he said.

She shook her head gently. "You tell me something." She turned to look at him. "I know so little about you Red, and you know nearly everything about me. It's a little one-sided, don't you think?"

She was looking at him so openly that he could scarcely refuse her.

"I like horses," he said. "I like to watch them. I like to ride them. I like their strength, their beauty. Their fierce freedom." His voice had taken on that melodic cadence that often held her, hypnotized, on his every word. "I love them in the wild most of all. The mustangs, especially. They stay with their herds their entire life."

He felt her grow heavy against him, and he knew she had dozed off. He rubbed a hand absently at her side; when she'd opened the door for him he was a little sad to see his t-shirt missing. She was shower fresh, though, and the emerald green form-fitting sweater she wore over dark jeans accentuated her curves and coloring.

He really was the king in this game, he thought, weakened by a queen who had no inkling of her own power. He hugged her against him tightly and she moaned a little in her sleep. _One move at a time_, he reminded himself, _one move at a time._

He lay his head back on the couch and closed his eyes for the first time in a very long time.

-0-0-0-


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: A huge thank you for the follows/favorites/comments and for the birthday wishes last week! I truly value your comments on this, and I'm so glad you've decided to take this little journey with me :).

-0-0-0-

He was with Sam on an oasis of light in the middle of a dark sea. The black water surrounded them, lapping at the edges of that circle of light as it slowly closed in on itself.

He sat beside him on the bed, held his withered leaf of a hand. Red gazed into the yellow eyes of his friend and wished there was another way.

Then, he was holding the pillow in his hands; Red studied his knuckles as they gripped the sides of it, the taut flesh over bone. Time slowed for a single breath, stopped long enough for him to register the microexpression of fear on the man's face before covering it.

Sam was weak, but Red knew how the will to live could easily overcome physical limitations, had experienced it firsthand. He bore down on him with the pillow and the man's frail body fluttered beneath it, his arms flailing, clutching the air. Tears stung Red's eyes as the mute struggles softened, but he did not relent.

Sam's hands pawed wildly at his assailant-his friend-the presence of death itself, until his fading strength failed him and the hands went slack.

Red looked down at the darkness pooled around them; it was now up to his feet.

Beneath him, Sam was still as night. Shakily, Red released his grip on the pillow and let it fall into the black water below.

He turned to face the man whose life he'd just taken. Instead, he saw Lizzie.

Her face was ashen, her lips parted and swollen. Her eyes were wide, fixed and lifeless.

He began to scream.

-0-0-0-

Red jolted awake, his heart racing. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to banish the memory of the dream. On the rare occasion that he did sleep, nightmares were a common occurrence. This one had been a frequent visitor of late.

He'd never seen Lizzie's face though, only Sam's.

"Red?"

He opened his eyes. Liz was looking down at him curiously, a flicker of concern darkening her face. Without thinking, Red put his hand out to touch her, lighting on her shoulder, her face, an errant lock of hair. His actions were desperate and nonsensical; he knew this, but he was powerless against the need. At his ministrations, her concern for him seemed to grow.

He chastised himself for not schooling his emotions better and withdrew his hand, satisfied that she was real. "Just a bad dream is all," he said, but the voice wasn't his. He turned away from her.

She smiled tightly, seeking his face. "I know a little about those."

And he was sorry she did. He wondered about those dreams, about how many of those he had a hand in. The Stewmaker, Federick Barnes, Red could go down a list of possible suspects that probably haunted her sleep. All because of him.

He stood a little stiffly and straightened his clothes. He was unaccustomed to waking with someone near, and the exposure made him uncomfortable. He needed a distraction, some distance from this cold, unfeeling house that had nothing in common with the woman who lived here. Some time outside of his own head.

"Let's get something to eat," he said.

She nodded, still looking at him with soft concern. She switched off the lights and followed him through the door, letting it shut heavily behind them.

He felt better outside. The air had cooled in the setting sun, and yesterday's rain had not returned. Indeed, it had been a beautiful day.

He opened the car door for Liz and then walked around to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel.

She looked at him, incredulous.

"I can drive, Lizzie," he said good-naturedly. "I just choose not to most of the time."

She sat back, visibly amused. She fastened her seatbelt. "Where's Dembe?"

He regarded her with a enigmatic smile. "Not here, but never far."

She nodded. The engine of the Mercedes purred to life and Red pulled away from the curb. They drove in silence for several minutes. The setting sun as it slanted off the hood of the car painted them both in warm light. She studied him in profile, a bemused expression on her face.

"You're a good driver Red."

He furrowed his brow. "I don't know if I should be flattered by the compliment or insulted by the surprise in your voice."

She laughed. "Neither. Merely an observation."

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but didn't. His eyes never left the road.

"So, where are we going?" She was hungry and not mentally prepared for one of Red's little adventures. Somewhere close by would be preferable, and soon.

"I thought I would let you pick it."

She blinked, not really comprehending.

He stole a glance at her while stopped at a light. "Seriously, Lizzie, you pick the place."

She narrowed her eyes, wondering if this was some sort of test of her culinary taste, or if it was another one of his lessons. If so, then she was sure to fail. She frowned.

"What's the matter?"

She looked out her window. "You never ask me where I want to go," she said seriously. "You just always behave as if you already know."

It shamed him. Was that how he was with her? A narcissistic control freak? He cleared his throat. "Well I don't always know," he said thoughtfully. "There are plenty of things I don't know." The light changed and they pulled away.

She looked at him then. He looked so average driving. A good average. An approachable average. She propped her elbow against the inside of the car door.

"Pizza," she said.

He pursed his lips, considering. "Pizza."

"Yeah. I know this really good place." For some reason she couldn't stop smiling.

He sighed. _Hadn't they just had Italian for lunch?_ "Alright then."

-0-0-0-

Gino's Pizzeria was a small hole-in-the-wall establishment in Georgetown with a tiny but loyal clientele. As Red and Liz made their way inside, a small bell above the door announced their arrival.

Gino himself met both of them across the scarred red and white checkered tile, a hunched man in his sixties with strong brown arms, sparkling almost black eyes, and a kindly smile. He kissed Liz lightly on the cheek. "It's been too long, dear Liz." Still smiling, he turned his attention to Red. "And this must be your husband."

Much to her chagrin, Liz's face burned. She cleared her throat, but did not miss the unmistakable glint in Red's eye. "Gino, this is my work partner, Raymond. Raymond, this is Gino, the most talented pizza maker in the city."

Red shook the man's hand. His soft skin and firm grip denoted a life of working dough. The back of that same hand bore scars from the furnace of his trade.

Gino led them past one other couple to a small circular booth with dark green vinyl seats. The little tablecloth over the scarred Formica was brilliant white despite the rustic nature of the place. Liz handed him a menu and looked over her own, her eyes dancing happily.

Red studied her. She seemed transformed, either by getting out of the house or the promise of food, he couldn't decide which. He dared not consider it might be the company, though selfishly he hoped that played a tiny part. Whatever the reason, he reveled in her brighter mood; it brightened his own.

"What are you going to get Red?" She fiddled with the corner of her napkin, awaiting his response. He found that she sometimes fidgeted when agitated or excited, a trait he found endearing.

"Pizza Margherita, my favorite."

She studied him curiously as if trying to solve a riddle. She seemed disappointed, and a corner of her mouth fell. "That doesn't seem quite like you. Too simple."

He met her eyes over the table. "You'll find I'm quite a simple man in many respects."

She considered that, but said nothing further.

Gino arrived with breadsticks and marinara, and they both ordered glasses of red wine.

"How did you find this place Lizzie?"

She finished chewing her breadstick before answering. "While I was still at the Academy. The cadets sometimes had to come to the city for orientation. I happened on it quite by accident. When I finally graduated and Tom and I moved to D.C., I was happy to find Gino still here."

At some point Gino had arrived with the wine, and Red listened intently as he sipped his glass. It was not a bad wine, very full-bodied and earthy. He found that he rather liked it.

He remembered her time at the Academy. His protection of her had not been so vigilant then; she had been in the bosom of the FBI and was believed to be safe. Still, he had kept watch, if only from afar. When he saw her again, it was like she'd become a woman overnight.

She had grown quiet during his revelry and looked suddenly preoccupied.

"I've only ever been here by myself," she said quietly. "Tom doesn't like pizza. He doesn't like Italian at all, actually." She glanced at her lap, suddenly uncomfortable.

_And she loves it_, he surmised, _that's why she wanted it twice in one day. _Red's mouth twitched.

"His loss," he said tightly. He found that if he spoke of Tom Keen too much, he would end up ruining what had been an otherwise perfect evening.

Their pizzas arrived and Red was surprised to find that the Pizza Margherita was up to his standards. Nothing like Naples, of course, but the crust was crisp and the mozzarella was very fresh. Liz had chosen a Neapolitan for herself, and it looked delicious.

She ate with vigor, slowly so as to not burn her lips but with a balance of zest and patience he found incredibly sexy. He licked his own lips unconsciously, looking at her. Liz eating pizza was better than Liz playing chess.

She noticed him staring and became suddenly self-conscious. A hand went up to cover her mouth and she laughed, a slow, simmering lilt. He decided that he wanted to hear that sound as much as possible and was committed to discovering new ways to produce it.

"I don't have anything on my face do I?" She was looking at him in mock horror, her eyes wide.

He shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with your face Lizzie. It's perfect."

She stopped chewing and favored him with a small smile.

When they had had their fill and the leftovers were packed away, they stood from the small table and prepared to leave. He grabbed her arm gently, leaning in close. The hooded lamps that hung from the ceiling gilded her features, picked up the auburn in her hair. She looked like fall. "You picked an excellent place," he said softly into her ear. "You'll have to pick the next one."

Her heart fluttered at the thought of another meal with him. She chose not to explore why. She only smiled, satisfied as he led them toward the exit.

Gino saw them out. "I'll see you very soon my dear," he said as he kissed her on the cheek. She gave him a little wave and stepped through the door ahead of Red, letting it ease shut.

"I knew you couldn't be the husband," Gino said to him when Liz had already gone, "because she never talks about him." He smiled. "She looks as though she might talk about you."

Red only smiled and followed Liz out into the night.

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	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thank you everyone for the comments; they certainly keep me motivated and I appreciate every one. Thanks to **jackandsamforever** and **RedandLizzie** for the gentle and not-so-gentle reminders to get on with things and to not get complacent with this story. I honestly needed (and need) the push, so thank you ladies :).

Thoughts on this chapter, especially, are appreciated.

* * *

"You know the problem with drawing lines in the sand? With a breath of air, they disappear." —Raymond Reddington, "Frederick Barnes"

-0-0-0-

As they pulled away from the curb, a light drizzle began to fall, just enough to smear the windshield with a fine mist. Outside, the air felt colder. They drove in silence mostly, the only sounds were the windshield wipers and the light road noise from the D.C. streets.

Red was pensive, still not entirely over his dream from earlier. Just as he would forget its significance another detail would come trickling back, needling his otherwise perfect calm and urging him to analyze it.

"Lizzie."

Her head was back against the seat, eyes closed, hands folded serenely in her lap, and for a moment he thought she might be asleep.

"Hmm," she replied drowsily. Her lips curled into a smile.

He stole a glance at her, perfectly at peace. He smiled, letting her doze. He never finished his thought.

-0-0-0-

They arrived back at her house, its dark windows shut against the light that was no longer there. Once inside Hudson greeted them, happy to have company again. When his heavy tail slapped against the side of his leg, Red reached down to pet him.

Liz settled on the couch, drawing her legs beneath her. She had rested in the car, but the food and wine from dinner prolonged her drowsy, relaxed state. There was one lamp on in the living room, and she didn't bother to turn on another.

Red crossed to the kitchen, withdrawing the wine from earlier. He poured them both a glass without asking if she wanted any and set them on the coffee table before settling beside her, leaving space between them.

Liz turned toward him on the couch and silently regarded him. He looked tired, she noted, and more preoccupied than she had seen him. Red had always exuded an unshakable calm; tonight he seemed disquieted. Melancholy.

"Lizzie, how long was your father sick?"

His voice had a somber vacancy and she frowned, taken aback by the question. "He had cancer before, but it was in remission," she said quietly. She sighed. "I didn't know about this latest recurrence until just before he died. He withheld it from me."

Red considered. While his eyes were fixed on the drab curtains, all he could see was Sam's face. It was not guilt. It was not some spiritual visitation straight from a Shakespearean tragedy. His preoccupation with what he had done was fueled by his proximity to the man's beloved daughter, by his own feelings for her. His act had complicated things, for him and for her. Ultimately, for them.

"Why do you think he did that," he asked. He looked at her, trying to keep his questions casual, soft. He realized the danger in bringing it up at all, but to remain silent was somehow worse.

She grew quiet for a few moments, considering. "He didn't want me to worry," she said finally. "To suffer. I was mad at him at first, but that was so Sam. To think of others before himself."

Her lip quivered a little in the dark, but she pressed it out as the silence stretched between them. She sought his eyes. "How can you fault someone for being who they are?"

He looked into her eyes and weighed the question. He found it ironic, sadly, that she had done exactly that with him on more than one occasion. He thought of Frederick Barnes. Maybe they both deserved her judgment.

He took a breath, eyed the untouched wine on the coffee table but made no move to reach for it. When he spoke, his voice was a tad lower than its usual timbre.

"Do you think if given the chance he would have chosen not to suffer, if only for your sake?"

There in the low light he could feel rather than see her deep frown, the straightening of her body. This seemed wrong to her, an anathema, the thought of something other than cruel nature taking her father from her.

"You mean, like euthanasia?" She said the word distastefully, her eyebrows knit together tightly.

He grew quiet. "I only ask because someone close to me made that choice. To end the short time he had left, the suffering, to spare his loved ones the agony of watching it all play out."

She fingered the edge of a throw pillow, nervous by his candor and saddened by the bleakness in his voice. "Oh," she said. She sought his eyes. "Did you agree with his decision?"

Red smiled tightly. "Not at first."

"I guess I can understand why someone would make that choice," she said honestly. "It would be hard to accept, though."

Red gave a sad smile. "It was hard for me to accept."

He took a steadying breath. What he was doing was reckless, he knew, but he needed this. He needed to talk about it, to tell someone. To tell her.

She looked at him. He was grieved, that much she knew. Ressler's case file had wrongly identified Red as showing no emotion, of maybe even having none. She now knew that to be untrue. Red exhibited emotion, just not obviously. You had to know where to look.

Liz had come to understand the subtle nuances of his mood, of his emotions. The prideful lift of his chin when he was around Cooper or Ressler. The way his brow went smooth when angered.

The way his breathing changed, the openly soulful way he looked at her whenever she was near.

She had noticed it from the moment they first met. His eyes seemed to ask her questions, entreaty permissions for assumptions he'd already made. Recalling memories she may or may not have. She'd denied it at first, chalked it up to nerves on her part, but she soon found out that her assessment was unmistakable.

But now, he was different. He looked damaged. Broken.

She wanted to say something. She couldn't find the words. Words were often inadequate, she knew. Condolences had been expressed to her so many times in the last few weeks that they now seemed empty, inappropriate. He didn't expect it from her. The only thing he'd ever asked of her was trust.

Wordlessly, she leaned into the space between them, did something she wished someone had done for her. An arm went around his shoulders, another under his jacket, encircling him in a close embrace. And Liz simply held him.

He stiffened, surprised, and she could see rather than hear the breath catch in his throat. Tentatively, he moved his arms around her, returning the gesture. Finally, his head dropped to her shoulder, and he exhaled.

She shuttered lightly at the warmth of his breath, the way his body seemed to melt into hers. She turned her face into his neck. "I'm sorry," she breathed.

He closed his eyes. Her breath on his skin was intoxicating; his nerve endings seemed attuned to her touch and they craved more. He inhaled, breathing in the scent of her hair and the delicate perfume she wore. His mouth ached to lathe the spot where she had dabbed it, just below her ear.

The moment stretched between them. His fingers traced the column of her vertebrae, just a whisper of a touch, and she tightened her arms around him. She remembered the sensation of sleeping in his bed, surrounded by warmth and the scent of Raymond Reddington. As pleasant as the memory was, there was no comparison.

She knew she should withdraw, break the contact. There were lines between them, boundaries she had established, had carefully guarded. They were precariously close to crossing them, she knew. She tried to occupy herself with the ramifications of their embrace, of the danger of such an association with this man. She tried to work up the will power to pull away from him, but all she could think of was how good he would feel against her bare skin.

She sighed, an involuntary sound that caused his body to quicken.

"Lizzie."

It was rough, lacking the fluidity, the control he usually possessed, and she noted the change. Abruptly he pulled away, seeking her face.

He locked eyes with her, and his were dark. His hands busied themselves at her shoulders, her neck, before stilling to cradle her face. His thumb grazed the crest of her jaw, his fingers in her hair, rubbing softly at the base of her skull. Beneath his palms, he could feel her rapid pulse.

She needed to be touched; he could see it. The open need, the raw venerability in her face made something inside him break.

"I should go," he said roughly, but he made no move to. Her eyes were deep pools in which he saw himself, his past, his future. If he didn't leave now he would kiss her. If he kissed her it would be difficult to stop.

A shadow passed over her face, breaking the spell. "No," she said quickly. She swallowed anxiously; a hand went up to cover his. "Don't go."

A single tear slipped beneath her lashes and trailed down the gentle slope of her cheek.

"I don't want to be alone."

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	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thank you all for reading and commenting; your words keep me motivated and I appreciate every one. Please take a moment to let me know what you think :).

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Red studied her. Her lips were slightly parted, and her chest gently rose and fell in anticipation of his response. When her eyes met his, they were achingly sad, entreating.

"You don't have to be alone," he said to her quietly, parroting the note they had never spoken of. He reached up to smooth her hair away from her face and his hand shook faintly.

She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying the tender flesh. It was more than he could bear. He smoothed away the remnants of that single tear and looked into her eyes. "Tell me what you need, Lizzie."

She leaned into his touch, and a hand went up to caress his wrist where it hovered near her face. Her slender fingers found the warmth of his slow and steady pulse.

"I need you to stay," she breathed.

Her eyes glittered with unspent tears. She closed her eyes tightly against the thought of his absence, releasing a few of them. For so long she had been numb, emoting when appropriate or expected. But now she could feel the anguish inside her like a dam on the verge of breaking, rising unexpectedly, threatening to smother her beneath its weight, beneath the overwhelming truth that she was most certainly alone.

Red frowned and pulled her to him gently, seeking to smooth away the sobs he saw building in her shoulders or at least brace her against their impact.

She wept. For her father, for herself. For the hours spent crying in Tom's arms without relief. And Red held her. He did not try to soothe or placate her or talk her out of her grief like Tom had. He was simply there. He let her grieve openly and without apology.

When she had finished, she rested her feverish face against the cool plane of his chest. Her fingers found a button on his shirt, and she outlined its shape in the lingering dark.

He pressed his lips to her head and then rested his cheek there.

"Thank you," she said, her throat still raw with tears. "For being here with me." She wanted to say more, but in the warmth and security of his embrace, words seemed to fail her.

He rubbed her arm lightly. "Lizzie, I've been to many places in my life," he began softly, "had many experiences. But nothing will ever compare to this, to being here with you. There's nowhere in the world I would rather be."

As usual his words seem to flow over her, melodious, mellifluent. She savored them as she had their earlier meal, their time together.

She also considered their implication. His words hinted at something deeper, that unnamed thing that often colored his comments to her, that warmed the eyes she often found studying her. His attraction to her was real and had been evident from the beginning. He'd made no attempts to hide it, she realized. Unlike her.

She had been captivated by him since that first meeting. Liz had denied it, ignored it, explained it away. Slowly she had realized that her attraction had evolved beyond the physical, that it had grown into something deeper than infatuation. Though she had tried, there was no denying the way he made her feel, no matter how long or how far she pushed him away.

She also knew beyond any shadow of doubt that Red felt the same. Had done so for a long time.

He had chosen her, after all. Waited for her. The reasons why seemed less and less important. She wondered why she had obsessed over it for so long. Did she not feel like the only person in the world when she was around him? Did she not feel treasured, protected, more so than she ever had in the arms of her husband?

Yes, she decided. All of it was true. She looked up at him. Stronger now, with a fire in her eyes that had not been there before.

Red recognized the smoldering ember of desire that she usually kept carefully schooled in his presence; it now burned freely, and he regarded it with some trepidation. Her cheeks were still ruddy and her eyes slightly puffed from her earlier tears, but there was a clarity there that had been absent for too long. _Beautiful_, he thought, _absolutely beautiful._

She steadily closed the gap between them, and his eyes widened. It was as if he could already feel the impact of the kiss, her silken lips against his, and his body responded in kind. He took a shaky breath, regrettably thwarting her advance with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

For just a moment she was confused, hurt. Then, she looked into his eyes and saw the want there, the desire.

"Lizzie, Tom will be home tomorrow." He looked her in the eyes, watching her face carefully as the words settled.

"Tomorrow," she repeated. She swallowed, looking anxious. "Tomorrow is not tonight," she said, searching his face. "Tonight there's just us."

Red had long dreamed of hearing such words from her, and he allowed himself a moment of revelry. His hand slipped down her back, and he felt her relax into his touch. He rested his forehead against hers.

"I don't want to be something you regret in the morning," he said quietly. "As long as you're another man's wife, that's all I'll ever be."

She frowned, stricken. She realized the venerability in his admission, his desire for something lasting, something real, and it sobered her.

"I guard my heart as closely as I guard yours," he said at last, his forehead still against hers.

She ran her fingers under his lapel, pushing away from the contact but refusing to put distance between them. "I don't feel like anyone's wife," she murmured vacantly. She was close enough for him to feel her warm breath on his face.

Red reached between them, grabbing her left hand and bringing it to his mouth. He kissed her palm, the wedding rings that encircled her finger. "But you are," he mouthed against her skin. He placed feather-light kisses down the length of her hand. He drew the tip of one finger into his mouth, unable to stop himself, and his teeth lightly grazed the delicate joints.

She tasted of vanilla, the remnants of a hand cream. He had caught whiffs of it before in passing, the ghost of it on case files, on a favorite pen. He closed his eyes. Red knew he was unfairly influencing her. He didn't care. Any boundaries they'd previously established were long since violated.

She took her hand away. Silently, she removed the rings, her eyes never leaving his, and cupped them in her hands. She held them over one of the forgotten glasses of wine on the coffee table, tipped her hand and they fell in, sinking immediately from sight.

He appraised her critically. Coupled with the desire in her eyes there was a determination there, a decision, and as much as it thrilled him it also worried him. She'd been through so much.

Wordlessly, she closed the space between them. She looked into his eyes briefly, then down to his mouth. She wet her lips and a hand went up to caress his face.

Red caught her around the wrist, just inches between them, and she gasped in surprised. He locked eyes with her, his expression warm and a little sad, and pressed his lips to hers.

Liz sighed against the softness of his lips, a perfect little sound. For all his want of her he kissed her gently, with a sort of wonderment and patience that she found both thrilling and maddening. His lips moved softly against hers, opening gradually, granting her just the slightest tip of his tongue in the gentle caress. Red released her hand and it drifted to his shoulder, around to his neck where her fingers slipped beneath the collar of his shirt.

She moved to deepen the kiss, to feel more of him, but he pulled away leaving her breathless. He smoothed little kisses along her cheek, her jaw, the graceful line of her neck. He murmured something has he opened his mouth there, possessing the heat of her skin and the gentle fragrance that was uniquely her. He flattened his tongue against it.

"Red."

It was an exhalation more than a word, and it wore at his resolve. His hand went around to pull her closer. Red took a steadying breath, cherishing the feel of her in his arms, marveling at this new thing, the warmth of her body against his. He leaned into her hair, outlined her ear with his nose. His warm breath seemed to build within her, eliciting a small sigh.

She didn't have to school her emotions with him, worry how to respond. It had always been that way. There was no act with Red, no ceremony. She could get lost in the feeling and never resurface.

Then abruptly, he stopped. When she opened her eyes he was looking at her softly, his hand cradling her neck. His kissed her once more, with a danger and a heat that was not there previously. When he pulled away his eyes were dark.

"When you choose me Lizzie, it will be because you want to, not because you need to."

She swallowed, grieving the loss of contact his words promised and not entirely understanding. "I do choose you," she said, not really minding the desperation slipping into her voice.

He kissed the back of her hand reverently. "You do," he said gently. "But not for the right reasons. Not yet."

She drew her hand away from him, a myriad of emotions at play on her face. She seemed dazed. She leaned back on the couch, facing away from him.

"I thought that you-," but she didn't finish. She shook her head in frustration, unable or unwilling to speak the words, and blinked away tears. She covered her mouth to conceal the frustration of her exposed feelings, her embarrassment.

He moved to stand, but instead knelt on the floor in front of her. He reached out and took both of her hands. The silver threads of her tears shown in the grey dark, and he hated himself for it.

"Lizzie."

She wouldn't look at him at first, but then he said her name again and she turned automatically at the sound. She held her breath at the emotion writ plainly on his face; such admittance was uncharacteristic for him.

"Make no mistake of how I feel Elizabeth." He drew her hand to his face, pressed his cool cheek against it. "But this can't happen here, now. There's no place for it."

The use of her given name made her throat constrict; the nickname that she had so despised at first was now a familiar touchstone, a constant when her world was in a tailspin. His neglect of it now made his sentiment even more significant.

And somehow, she understood. Right now they existed in two worlds...worlds that intersected orbital paths, eclipsing each other briefly only to right themselves again in opposite directions. As long as she was married to Tom, there was no room for this, for him. The realization pained her. She wet her lips.

"I'm sorry," she said. And she was. Sorry for so many things.

Red looked up at her, his eyes soft. "Don't be," he said. He kissed the hollow between her knuckles, letting his lips rest there for a moment. "You've nothing to be sorry for."

She closed her eyes, wishing she could believe him. In truth, she had plenty to be sorry for. She had married Tom because he was easy. Non-threatening. Kind, accommodating. He didn't challenge her, and after a life of challenge Liz felt she owed herself a little easy.

But she'd been wrong. Here was a man who challenged her in every way imaginable, and she found herself craving his space.

"Come on," Red said, interrupting her thoughts. He gently tugged at her hand. "It's late."

She let him pull her to a standing position, and she stood facing him. Neither of them spoke as he led her to the bedroom. He stopped at the nightstand and turned on the lamp, filling the room with soft warm light. He hadn't let go of her hand.

Tom had left the bed in disarray. The sheets were in wads and tangles and hung partially onto the floor. The pillows were at odd angles. She looked at the scene spitefully; chaos had always set her ill at ease. The bedding was the color of wet newspaper, and she wondered briefly why she had ever chosen it.

Red released her hand only to reposition it at the small of her back as he led her to a nearby chair. "Sit here while I get the bed ready," he said.

So she watched as Raymond Reddington cleaned up another man's mess.

When he had spread everything neat again, he looked at her a little sheepishly. "You should get changed," he said.

Liz sensed that he was about to leave the room, and she reached for his hand. She found his fingers and laced them with her own.

"You're staying, right?" She looked up at him through thick lashes, her face open, expectant.

Red glanced down at their hands intertwined and cleared his throat. "Of course. I won't leave you Lizzie. Not tonight."

He released his fingers and let her hand drift to her side. When he left the room and the door snicked closed, she felt truly bereft.

The last two words were not lost on her. _Tonight_, he would be here. Tomorrow night, another man would. In her bed, in her arms. Her husband. She let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding as a cold hand closed around her stomach.

Silently she rummaged in the dark, concerned for the first time about what to wear. It made her feel a little silly, to be so preoccupied, but she realized it mattered what he thought of her, appearance included.

She took a few moments in the bathroom and then scrubbed her face clean of makeup. She had her hair clipped back and a few dollops of moisturizer stood out in white peaks on her chin, her cheeks, and the center of her forehead. She was still rubbing them in when a quiet knock interrupted her.

When she opened the door to the bedroom, he found himself completely unprepared. Her hair was back and away from her face in a way he had never seen her wear it, and it only highlighted her features. Her face, smooth and clean of any makeup was the face of a Madonna, alight with a warmth and beauty that needed no augmentation. Those little spots of cream, rapidly disappearing under her able fingers, only made him ache to touch her.

Most unnerving of all, though, was that she was wearing his shirt.

That simple white cotton undershirt took on a new life beneath her curves. The hem struck her well above the knee, and the shock of her shapely legs jutting beneath it left him gaping.

She noticed him staring, and she blushed visibly, averting her eyes. She gave a little shrug, smiling. "I like it."

He closed his mouth and tried not to stare too openly at her legs, her feet, the delicate toenails that were painted fire engine red.

"So do I," he managed. He quirked his mouth. "It looks a whole lot better on you than it does on me."

She smiled, looking at him meaningfully. "Oh, I don't know about that."

He swallowed and the air crackled between them. He suddenly envisioned that undershirt hitched up over her waist, the smooth skin of her stomach shining in the dark and her writhing beneath him.

"Let's get you to bed then," he said. The gravel in his voice gave him away. When he grabbed her hand his was warm.

He turned back the covers for her to climb inside. When she had settled beneath the sheets, Red sat down in the chair she had occupied earlier. He propped his feet on the bed beside her; he had removed his shoes, but he still wore socks. His vest was absent and a few more buttons of his dress shirt were unbuttoned. His sleeves were rolled up over his dark arms just past the elbows.

"What are you doing Red."

He had closed his eyes, obviously in some sort of contemplation, and he tilted his head slightly at her question. She asked him again.

"I'm going to stay with you until you fall asleep Lizzie."

She frowned imperceptibly, remotely hoping that he might have chosen to join her. She considered briefly the implications of that hope, and how much she needed just to be near him.

"Oh," she finally said. He could hear the dejection in her voice, and he chewed his jaw.

"You can't sleep in the chair, Red." It was a high-back chair and not the most comfortable for sitting, let alone resting.

He steepled his fingers over his chest. "I won't sleep," he said flatly.

She remained on her side, curling her legs toward her chest. "What do you mean you won't sleep?"

He sighed, a quiet, somewhat defeated sound in the stillness between them. "I mean I don't. I don't sleep."

She made a little noise, either related or unrelated to their conversation, and flipped over on her back. "I don't sleep sometimes," she admitted. "I haven't slept well since Sam died."

He nodded. He had not turned off the lamp yet, and he drank in her profile. The delicate hands clasped the blanket somewhere at her waist. He noticed that she wore a bra, probably for modesty's sake. He couldn't imagine she slept in one, but he'd known a few women that did. Her long hair fanned out over the pillow, framing her face.

"Does it make you tired?" Her voice was thin from the late hour, and he could tell she was minutes away from sleep.

He pursed his lips. "You get used to the tiredness," he said. "Like company that's overstayed their welcome. After awhile you quit fighting it."

He heard her stir, but she didn't respond. Assuming she had dozed off, he turned off the light and plunged the room into total darkness before his eyes adjusted. He sat in the dark for a few moments, thinking.

"Red?"

He smiled to himself. "Yes Lizzie."

"Don't leave me," she mumbled.

He smoothed the arms of the chair absently, his eyes on the soft curves of her outline on the bed.

"Never Lizzie. Never."

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